CH1190 · Rewrite
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Chapter 1190: An Important Task

Lucia had no idea what high energy physics meant, and no real understanding of what her work would ultimately produce. But she had noticed that His Majesty always paused in front of that gold plate — stood there longer than any sign warranted, as though the words carried some charge she couldn’t detect.

That was enough to make her care.

What she did in the laboratory was not so different from what she’d done in the Furnace Area. Yet the feeling was different: something extraordinary ran under it, invisible, like current through a wire.

Azima was resting in her chair with her eyes closed when Lucia crossed into the inner yard. She sat up at the sound of footsteps.

“You’re here.”

“Good afternoon,” Lucia said.

“Warm enough in here to put you right to sleep.” Azima stretched, rolling her neck. “Shall we begin?”

“Please. And — thank you.”

“Don’t.” Azima waved her off. “I’m your assistant. I follow your instructions. We’ve worked together long enough to skip the formalities.” Her voice dropped to something that arrived on the warm breeze rather than being said directly. “Besides, two gold royals a month just for sitting here. Nothing to complain about.”

Lucia pressed her lips together to contain her laugh.

She had been wary of Azima at first. Wendy’s accounts of the Sleeping Island’s internal fractures had not been flattering, and this red-haired witch with her blade-sharp face and her air of casual superiority had been the ringleader of one faction. When King Roland appointed Azima as her assistant, Lucia had wondered, quietly and with some anxiety, whether she was actually competent to supervise anyone — let alone this particular person.

Several months of work had settled the question. Azima complained freely, especially about Princess Tilly and occasionally about His Majesty himself, but she was diligent, reliable, and scrupulously exact. She also had a habit of muttering things under her breath — “I’ll prove myself” and “Just you wait, Nightingale” and “I can support myself perfectly” — that Lucia found more endearing than she had expected.

“Alright,” Lucia said. She opened the closet and handed Azima a white protection garment. “Let’s begin.”

The first step was always the suit. They were forbidden to touch the research material directly; they breathed through special filters; and Roland had been emphatic that the purified material was lethal in minute quantities — enough to kill by contact or inhalation. Before each session, they checked each other’s clothing for gaps and unsealed seams, particularly the spots one could not inspect on oneself. Azima gave a thumbs-up once the check was complete.

Then they went out into the open yard.

The ground was lined with rows of green slabs — darker in shade than the bricks from the Furnace Area, but otherwise unremarkable in appearance. Pick one up and the illusion collapsed: they were dense as cast iron, crushing in the hand.

Lucia lifted a slab and drew her power through it. The stone had been sitting in the sun and had stored the heat, but the temperature did not interfere with her ability. Under her perception the slab dissolved into a layered spectrum of compounds, some of them catching an internal glint. The material Roland needed was a small fraction of the whole — silver specks scattered through the mixture like ink drops in water.

Still, this was far easier than pulling raw ore at the North Slope.

The color-bands shifted. Lucia coaxed them apart, reorganizing the mixture until four distinct blocks separated out. The largest was waste, discarded. The remaining three were graded by size. The smallest — a single particle, the size of a grain of salt — was the silver, toxic material Roland required. She transferred it to a glass jar and set it aside.

The other two blocks were silver as well, distinguishable only by magic. The larger — almond-sized — went into a basket for Anna, who would use it to test the new machine taking shape at the North Slope. The smaller, half the size of a fingernail, went into a lead box. A new box would be opened once the first reached five kilograms.

Working without interruption, Lucia could process enough in two to three days to fill one. These slabs, stripped from buildings of the radiation clan, had already been through a preliminary purification; the impurities were fewer, the sorting faster.

She finished one slab and stood, opening her palms toward Azima.

Roland’s protocol: before touching a new slab, Azima had to confirm there was no residue at the scene or on Lucia’s clothing. Her ability could detect even a particle’s worth. She swept the space, checked Lucia’s gloves and suit, and nodded.

Two hours later, Lucia’s power ran out.

“That’s enough.” Azima steadied her by the arm. “Evening study tonight. Push past empty and we’ll be carrying you back to the castle.”

“You’re right,” Lucia agreed, too tired to argue.

Fatigue and the stifling heat of the suit — there was no point pressing on through both. They stripped out of the protective clothing, showered, and emerged into the dusk courtyard. A breeze moved through the creepers on the outer wall with a dry rustle. The cool air reached Lucia’s face and she let out a long breath.

“You did a great job.”

She turned. Roland crossed the yard toward them with Nightingale at his side, who carried two blue bottles of Chaos Drinks.

“This is — ” Azima blinked, caught off guard.

“This is for you two only,” Roland said, lowering his voice with the air of conspiracy. “Don’t mention it to anyone.”

Azima took her bottle with both hands, stiff with formality. “Th-thank you.”

Lucia didn’t wait — she pried the lid off and drank. The cold sweetness moved through her throat and she forgot, for a few seconds, every calculation and ambition she had carried through the afternoon.

When both bottles were empty, Roland asked, “How’s it going?”

Lucia led him inside and opened a cabinet. Rows of lead boxes filled the shelves — neat, uniform, each sealed tight.

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